We flew south.
Didn't talk about it. Didn't debate. No map. No plan. Just a look, a nod, and then the sky opened above us like a wound healing.
The ice-crusted bones of Lord Artag's camp still smoked behind us—nothing but char and ash and a few unlucky crows picking at what the fire didn't take. I didn't look back. I didn't need to. I'd spent enough time frozen, shackled, and humiliated to know that some things are better left in ruins.
So we flew.
And gods… it felt good.
Cold at first. Still biting, especially up high. But every league south softened it. The frost in the air thinned. The clouds stopped trying to murder us. The sun—bless that arrogant bastard—finally stopped hiding.
Below us, the world stirred like something waking from a long sulk. Ice cracked. Streams hissed through their own breath. Hills rolled like lazy cats shedding snow-fur in the sunlight.
And over it all, I soared.
Perched just behind his neck ridge, cloak wrapped around me, fingers tangled in his warm scales. Wind tearing at my braid. Teeth chattering. Grinning like a lunatic.
I didn't even care where we were. Somewhere past the edge of the old maps. Mountains I couldn't name. Ranges that didn't bother announcing themselves to cartographers. Valleys that had never seen war. No towns. No roads. Just cliffs, waterfalls, ridges that looked like the spines of sleeping titans.
And trees.
So many trees.
The kind I didn't realize I'd missed. Tall and proud, stretching up to meet us. Forests yawning open, pushing out buds and bright green leaves like the world was drunk on its own return.
He hadn't said a word since we took off.
But I didn't need him to.
His silence wasn't cold anymore. It was… solid. Present. Like a warm blanket that doesn't smother you, just sits on your shoulders and says: you're not alone.
He angled his wings slightly to catch an updraft, and we rose higher—above a wide canopy where new leaves gleamed like coins in the sunlight.
Somewhere below, a bear was probably waking up cranky. Somewhere even further down, a brook was laughing itself into motion. Somewhere ahead, there would be people again. Food. Noise. Life.
But for now?
It was just us.
And it was enough.
***
The lake was stupidly blue.
Not just "nice day" blue. No. Offensively blue. Cobalt, deep as lapis, glittering like a god had spilled sapphires and couldn't be arsed to clean them up. The kind of blue that makes poets weep and fishermen drown.
We landed by a shelf of warm stone, half-covered in wild crocus and patches of pale moss. The wind was soft. The air smelled of pine resin and melting earth. Somewhere distant, a bird I couldn't name was losing its mind with joy.
I stumbled off his back with the grace of a drunk goat, legs wobbling, fur boots slipping on the rock.
"Gods," I groaned. "I stink."
He snorted behind me, stretching his wings with a lazy, theatrical flair.
"Correction," he said. "You've fermented. There are swamps with better hygiene."
I whirled around, hands on hips, cloak flapping like a defeated war banner. "Excuse me, you leather-bellied flying furnace, but someone kept dragging me through a frozen hellscape for weeks. You try staying dainty in chains and snowdrift."
He sniffed theatrically, nostrils flaring. "Still. You reek like a goat's regret."
"Then avert your snobby gaze," I said sweetly, and with a flourish, unfastened the brooch of my fur cloak.
It slid from my shoulders in a heavy heap. Then the boots. Then the scratchy wool tunic—gray with pale blue tartan, still damp with sweat and reeking of Lord Artag's tent and my own unwashed misery.
I was grinning like a lunatic now. High on sun. High on motion. High on the simple fact of being alive.
"Honestly," I said, spinning once in the sunlight, arms stretched wide, "this whole outfit should be burned. With ceremony. Maybe a sad song. Or a goat sacrifice."
The Dragon made a sound halfway between a sigh and a gag. "Put something on before the forest files a complaint."
But I was already stepping to the edge.
Only thing left on me was the lynx tooth necklace, strung on braided leather, still sharp and pale against my chest. A trophy from Lord Artag. A keepsake from a nightmare. It made me look like some savage huntress queen from a bad bard song.
I kind of liked it.
And I wasn't quite ready to take it off.
So I left it on.
And I jumped.
The lake swallowed me whole.
Cold. Then perfect. Then just mine.
I surfaced with a yelp, hair slicked to my skull, teeth flashing.
"By the gods," I gasped, flinging water like a sea demon, "I'm reborn! Quick, Dragon, come baptize yourself before the rot in your soul becomes permanent!"
"I prefer my soul charred, thank you," he called, settling on the sun-warmed rock like a judgmental cat. "And you're going to catch something, swimming naked in glacier melt."
"Like what? Joy? Freedom?" I kicked in a lazy circle. "Maybe a sexy rash?"
"You'd make an excellent cautionary tale."
"And you," I shouted, floating on my back now, arms wide to the sky, "are missing out!"
"On what? Freezing my nethers off while some trout judges me?"
"On this moment, you fossil! This day! This sky! This ridiculous lake! Gods, it's like being kissed by a cloud."
He didn't answer.
But I saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
Victory.
I splashed water in his direction for good measure.
Then I laughed. Loud. Unashamed. Alive.
Because for once, the world wasn't heavy.
It was just wet. And bright.
And mine.